Under the Sun
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: A collection of S8-related one shots and tags. #4: In Sickness: A moment between the boys after the events with Charlie, inspired by the teaser. Spoilers up to 8.20, "Pac Man Fever" and maybe for the sneak peek to the next episode.
1. Under the Sun

**Author's Note: **I was actually going to let _We Need to Talk about Kevin _go untagged, because there wasn't anything I particularly wanted to write. Then SandyDee84 suggested having a go at speculation related to Dean's new friend, so… Here it is. The Season 8 Tag Series has begun. :) I hope you enjoy it!

Thanks to Cheryl for the beta.

**Disclaimer: **The boys aren't mine. Nor is Benny.

**Summary: **Someone is standing in the dark watching Sam Winchester drive away. Tag to 8.01, _We Need to Talk about Kevin_.

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**The Watcher in the Shadows**

Dean Winchester thinks he's so smart.

The vampire who calls himself Benny – at least in this century – smirks as he draws the car up to the curb. He's chosen an old model, a Mustang, because he really doesn't have time to figure out the new fancy cars with dashboards that look like they belong in a spaceship. The woman who used to own the Mustang is lying behind a dumpster two towns away, sightless eyes staring up into nothing.

He's a couple of blocks away from his destination, but he can already smell it, sharper and clearer than the thousands of other scents assailing his nose.

Benny locks the car and starts walking.

The ones who think they're smart are the easiest. Dean's so used to saving the world, so used to facing enemies stronger than the human mind can comprehend, that he's practically forgotten that the smaller dangers are worth worrying about.

He's lucky it was Dean who got sucked into Purgatory. He's heard enough about Sam to know that.

_Sam's not like the others_, Lenore said the last time saw her, something very close to respect colouring her tone. _Sam understands. Sam sees that all vampires aren't evil._ Then she looked straight at Benny – Benny, he's going to have to get used to that name. _He wouldn't kill me, even when I asked him to. Even when I told him I couldn't resist. He thought I could be saved._

_Sam sees_, Eli repeated, eyes glinting with cold malevolence. Benny met his father's gaze in the darkness of the Purgatory night and nodded.

_Sam sees._

_Be careful around him._ That was what Eli meant. Sam sees the good and he might see the bad. Sam will trust an enemy so he might doubt a friend.

But Dean's world is black and white, just like Eli said. Get him to trust and he'll forget he ever had a reason to doubt. Dean doesn't give serious credit to the idea that a vampire who betrayed his friends for Dean would just as easily betray Dean.

Benny licks his lips. He can still taste her blood, the former owner of the Mustang. His first taste of human blood since Samuel Campbell hacked his head off all those years ago.

Benny thrills with the anticipation of revenge.

He vaults easily over a fence to Sam's street. This close, he can smell it even more strongly. Sam's blood. After everything he heard, he expected it to smell rank and foul, like a demon's blood, but it doesn't. There's a lingering something that's reminiscent of Azazel, but the reek of Archangel is far stronger. That, and something new, something fresh, that probably comes from being torn apart and put back together so many times.

But the strongest impression Benny has, so strong that it overpowers everything else, is that Sam's blood smells like Dean's.

Benny breathes deeply, like he's inhaling the scent of a fine wine.

For a moment he thinks longingly of champagne sparkling in crystal flutes. Marie Antoinette kept a fine table… Such a shame she couldn't keep her head.

Such a shame the world has no more Marie Antoinettes.

Sam's blood smells more tempting than anything Benny ever tasted in the Bourbon court. He hasn't even bothered to check the house number. The scent was enough to guide him.

He's near enough now to sense the blood thrumming through Sam's veins and feel every beat of Sam's heart. One woman wasn't nearly enough to make up for fifty years' deprivation in Purgatory. All Benny wants is to walk into the house, past the conflicting and bothersome scents of the girlfriend and the dog, seize Sam Winchester, and feast.

Benny forces himself to stay calm and think about his plan.

This isn't only about revenge.

Revenge is certainly a reason – and an _important _reason. Lenore told Sam that the rest of her nest had been killed, but she didn't tell him everything. She didn't tell him who it was who did the killing.

She didn't tell him how many deaths were on Samuel Campbell's head.

This is also about righting a wrong. Sam and Dean are all that's left of Samuel Campbell's bloodline. The spell Benny taught Dean isn't the only resurrection spell he knows.

Benny's never had a job he liked as much as this. Sam and Dean Winchester. Even individually, either of them would be a special treat. Together…

Together, their blood has demon and Archangel, vampire and phoenix, Heaven and Hell, Purgatory and the Cage…

Together, their blood will be alive with all the fierceness and intensity of their bond, the bond that angels and demons and monsters and humans have tried and failed to break. The bond that defeated Lucifer.

Benny – he laughs at the innocuousness of the name – stands in the shadows, staring at the house.

Dean was so easy.

Dean sees Purgatory as pure. It is, in a way. Purgatory is adrenaline and animal instincts. Purgatory is the terror of the chase and the thrill of the hunt. Purgatory is the deepest, most base, most feral part of every living soul.

Benny supposes that could be considered pure.

At any rate, a year in Purgatory has taught Dean to live in the moment, to live _for _the moment. He didn't ask many questions earlier, and he asks none at all now. He doesn't tread in grey areas, not even as much as he used to, and once he decided Benny was on his side, it wasn't long before he stopped thinking about his new ally's motives. He never wondered why Benny asked if anyone was working to get him out of Purgatory. He never asked why Benny so often mentioned Sam's name and then stopped short as though he thought he was touching a difficult subject.

He didn't realize Benny was toying with him.

Now Dean's scared, more than ever, of his brother's abandonment. Dean's not a fool: he knows the year in Purgatory changed him. Maybe he even understands _how_ it changed him. And there's a part of him, a part he thinks nobody knows about, that's terrified that he's turned into something Sam Winchester will reject.

The entire world knows that Dean Winchester has only one way of dealing with fear.

Benny's smile widens as he watches the dark house. He steps further into the shadows when he sees a light go on in the bathroom window. It's going just as he anticipated.

He reflects smugly that he's got Dean where he wants him, and now all that remains is Sam.

_Sam is good_, Lenore said. _Sam is different_.

_Nobody's different_, Eli scoffed.

_Sam Winchester is dangerous_, the Alpha Vampire warned when Benny spoke to him on the phone earlier today. _Don't make the same mistake everyone else did. Don't underestimate those boys._

Benny snorts. He hasn't underestimated Sam at all. He's got the younger Winchester boy's measure. He's heard the stories. He understands what everyone else has done wrong and what he's going to do right.

That's why he spent so long playing on Dean's insecurities.

Benny isn't going to break Sam Winchester. He's going to let Sam's brother do it for him.

The front door opens and a figure steps out. He's tall, but that isn't what strikes Benny the most.

Sam looks… gentle. Soft. Pliable. He looks like a man with a house and a girlfriend and a dog, not like the hunter who defeated Lucifer. He looks _weak_. Benny can't believe that _this _isthe man who won a battle of wills against the Devil.

Benny suppresses his laughter. His plan is perfect. This is going to be like sucking blood from a baby.

Sam comes down the steps and stops by the car. The Impala, sleek and black and gleaming. Benny's heard all about it from Dean.

Benny watches, amused, as the hunter's large hand rests on the hood. The vampire shakes his head, turning away for a moment to glance at a bat that's come to rest in a nearby tree.

When he looks back, something's changed.

Sam's still there, still wearing the same clothes, still fumbling with the keys. Same silly haircut. Same too-large body. He still looks gentle and soft. But he doesn't look weak anymore. He looks more incomplete, and yet somehow stronger, and his eyes sparkle with something Benny, with all his centuries of experience of humans, can't identify.

Suddenly Benny knows what the change is, knows because he can scent it – the fierceness, the intensity, the _love _– in the blood pumping through Sam's body.

Sam isn't _Sam_ anymore. He's half of _Sam and Dean_.

Benny, cold-blooded though he is, shivers in the night air. This wasn't part of his plan. He wasn't prepared for this. He barely even _understands _what's happening. All he knows is that a moment ago he saw easy meat, and now he sees strength and courage and a core of steely determination that he thinks even he might not be able to overcome.

Benny's breath catches as, for the first time, he wonders what it'll take to turn Dean from _Dean_ into Sam's other half, and what it'll be like when that happens. Will it happen as soon as Dean sees his brother? Will it happen the first time he sees Sam in danger?

And if that happens, if Sam and Dean become _Sam and Dean_, will Benny's plan crumble in the face of Sam's loyalty and Dean's protectiveness and the legendary Winchester bond?

For the first time in his long, long life, Benny is afraid.

After all, Lucifer and Michael had a plan, too.

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	2. Chosen

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note: **So I really didn't think I'd be writing _Supernatural _tags again for a while. But with S8 going the way it is, I totally, _totally _want to.

**Summary: **Tag to 8.10, _Torn and Frayed_. Dean waits for Sam to come back from his walk.

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**Chosen**

I disconnect the call.

It's over.

It doesn't feel as bad as I thought it would. And it wasn't a difficult decision, either. I think I knew, knew the moment Sam asked me if I was done with Benny, that I was going to do this. I just didn't want to admit it then.

I don't know what Sam's going to do, but that doesn't matter. Not as far as the thing with Benny's concerned. If Sam _does _stay with me, it's not worth the trouble it would cause between us. And if he doesn't… Well. I don't think I'd be able to look at Benny again without resenting him for being the reason, or even part of the reason, my brother left.

It's best this way. Whatever happens.

I grab a beer and settle down to wait for Sam to come back.

The minutes tick by.

It's been an hour. I'm on my third beer now. I'm starting to wonder if Sam's gone back to Texas and Amelia Richardson after all. Maybe he thought it would be easiest just to leave without saying goodbye. We've never been good with goodbyes.

No. Sam wouldn't. Sam would come here and either have a chick-flick moment or yell at me. Either way, he wouldn't leave without talking to me.

It starts to rain.

Sammy must be getting soaked to the skin. And he's probably going to keep right on walking instead of getting to shelter like a sane person. He'll give me some stupid explanation about how it helped balance his chi or his tao or whatever the hell he's trying to balance these days. I know the freaking hippie's a fan of nature, but I'm not a fan of him catching a cold.

I have half a mind to go after him. But I don't know where he's gone, and I'm not yet desperate enough to drive around in circles looking for him. If the rain doesn't let up soon, I might.

Stupid kid.

And what if he's had an accident? The rain must be making the roads slippery. I don't even know which ID he has on him right now. If he has whatever he was using in Texas before I came back, the hospital would have called Amelia.

Amelia doesn't have my number. I don't know if Amelia even knows about me.

I force myself to calm down. This is ridiculous. Sam's gone for a walk, and he's going to get a bit wet walking in this rain but I can bully him into drying off as soon as he gets back. _Even_ if he's going to leave, he can dry off and get warm first.

I am not worried about Sam.

Why should I worry? The kid figured out how to live without me. He was all set to leave me – again – in search of a normal life – _again_ – and if he comes down with pneumonia because he wanted to be stubborn and walk in the rain, he can deal with it himself.

I'm not sitting by the window watching for him.

Well, I am sitting by the window. But that has nothing to do with Sam. There's just a really comfortable chair that happens to be by the window. And I totally didn't put it there. No idea how it got there. Maybe Sam did it.

So, yeah, I'm sitting by the window.

But I'm not watching for Sam. I might be looking out the window, because that's what windows are _for_, and if Sam does come back it's not like I can miss the freaking giraffe, but I'm not watching for him.

I'm just about to get the Impala and take a casual drive – what, Sam's the only one who can use rain to balance his chi? – when I see him. He's strolling through the undergrowth like a tree-hugger, taking his time instead of getting his ass back here and getting warm and dry.

I have the door open by the time he gets to it.

"What the hell?" I demand, pulling him in. "Are you _trying _to get sick?"

Sam stares at me for a moment.

Then he flings himself at me, arms wrapping around me in a tight hug. I'm not sure what the problem is, but I hug him back anyway. He'll get all dewy-eyed if I don't. It's uncomfortable, water and cold seeping through my shirt, but I can't make myself push him away.

Maybe this is the last time.

Maybe this is goodbye.

I squeeze Sam tighter.

Maybe, if I call Amelia and tell her about us – hunting and ghosts and demons and coming back from the dead – she won't want Sam. Maybe she'll send him back to me.

It's a horrible thought, and I squash it as soon as it forms.

Sam draws back, not meeting my eyes.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "Didn't mean to get you wet."

"Just for that, you're doing laundry next time, bitch."

As soon as the words are out, I realize what I've said. I look at Sam, mouth open to take them back, and I realize that he hasn't objected. He's looking at me, half-smiling, half-not, and I _know _that look.

I know, but after everything that's happened I still need to hear Sam say it.

"Sammy?" I prod.

He looks away. "I… Yeah. I thought about. Really. Because – well. Because I wanted to be sure and not regret it, later. And I am, and I won't. I…" He trails off. "You remember right after Cas broke the wall in my head?"

"Yeah," I growl, because that is _not _a time I want to relive, me sitting by Sam's bed wondering if I would ever hear his voice again.

"You know why I came back?"

"Enlighten me."

"Because I couldn't leave you alone." Finally, _finally_ Sam looks back, meeting my eyes. "I can't leave you alone, Dean. I won't."

If I could think of a snarky response I would make it, but my brain's refusing to process anything beyond the need to grin like a loon and pull Sam into another, fiercer hug.

He's dimpling when I let him go.

There'll be time, later, to figure stuff out. Time to tell Sam I'm not seeing Benny again, time to ask him if he wants to explain anything to Amelia, time to ask if he wants me around when he does. Time, even, to plan our next move.

For now…

"You and me against the world, huh?" I ask.

Sam laughs, eyes suspiciously bright. "Just like always."

For now, this is enough.

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	3. Darkness

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Author's Note: **Advance warning – there's absolutely no plot. None. This was just something I felt like writing.

For reviewing, thanks to PHDinSPN, godsdaughter77, caffrey girl, SPNxBookworm, Twinchester Angel, Ange De La Misericorde, SandyDee84, Ne'ith5, L.A.H.H, criminally charmed, SPN Mum, J2Brothers, nupinoop296, Jeanny, sarah, CeCe Away, twomoms, kioku7, SayLo, judyann, Love Me Like Sunday, sammynanci, Branch Super, FoxO'Fire, pottyandweezlbe89, Cariboucapecod, lillelouis, Scribble2Much and Jimelda.

**Summary: **Dean knows Sam's getting sicker… But just how bad will things get? Tag to 8.19, _Taxi Driver_.

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**Darkness**

I open the laptop. Sam's laptop, and the password is still _Eat_sa1ad_Dean_. I haven't had the heart to change it, and each time I touch the keys it's like being just a little closer to Sam. I can almost hear him snickering behind me.

_Sammy._

I still can't believe he's gone.

Sam's gone.

And since we closed the Gates of Hell, there are no demons I can make deals with. Death flat-out declined to help, Cas was sympathetic but firm in his refusal to heal Sam, and Sammy… Sammy smiled gently up at me through the blood on his face and whispered my name with his last breath.

I suppress a sob.

I can still hear that whisper of _Dean _every time I shut my eyes. It was goodbye and absolution and love and everything Sam's ever been able to tell me with just that one word. I felt the puff of air on my collarbone, and Sam's fingers tightened around mine, sticky with the blood on both our hands, and that…

That was it.

I open the catalogue of the Men of Letters' books that Sam was working on. A message box pops up.

_Hey, Dean! Have you stopped moping yet? Don't bother answering, I know you haven't. _

Sam's messages. They're all that keep me going, and they're the reason I open the catalogue every single day though I've never read any of the books. I like to sit in the library, though. If I lean back and shut my eyes it almost feels like Sam's with me.

I hit _OK_. Another message box opens.

_You need to move on. Don't look for me, Dean. I knew the risks._

I hit _OK _again, and the final message comes up. That one's always the same, every day.

_I love you, big brother._

I shut the laptop and get out of the chair, quickly crossing the few feet to Sam's room. It's exactly as he left it. I haven't moved a thing. His hunting journal's still on his desk, the pen still stuck in it, holding it open to the last entry he made. I've read it a hundred times. Sam's handwriting was getting shaky at the end as his strength waned, but he still wrote. I think he wanted to make sure I had something of his.

The bed's unmade. I remember waking Sam on that last day to tell him Garth's contact had come through and we had all we needed for the third trial. I remember the wide hazel eyes looking into mine as we both took in the implications of that statement, and then Sam flinging himself into my arms.

"I'll take care of you," I promised as I held him close. "You're going to come through this."

I couldn't keep that promise.

Sam's gone.

Sam's _gone_.

Sam's gone and it's my fault. If I hadn't been so eager to close the Gates of Hell – if I'd sent him back to Amelia instead of jumping at the chance when he said he'd stay with me – if I'd _killed _the damn Hellhound when I had the chance –

If I'd done things differently.

If. _If._

My life is full of those.

Not for the first time, my fingers close around my gun. I've come close so many times I've lost count, holding the barrel to my temple but not going through with it because Sam would want me to live. Sam _died _so I could live.

But today…

I feel cold steel on my skin, and my finger is steady on the trigger.

Wherever Sam is – Hell, Heaven, somewhere in between – I'm going after him. I'm going to keep my promise. I'm going to take care of him.

I pull the trigger.

I wake up, shaking.

It was a dream. Oh thank God. _Thank God. _It was a dream. Sam didn't die in my arms.

Sam's alive.

I scramble out of bed. I need to see him for myself.

I fling myself out of my room, but when I get to his, I open the door as quietly as I can. I can't hear him coughing, which means he must _finally _have fallen asleep. I don't want to wake him up.

I tiptoe in.

Sam's asleep on his stomach, blankets pulled up to his neck. He must have been feeling chilly again, although it's actually warm in the bunker.

I lay a hand on his back.

I do it as gently as I can, but Sam's sleeping even lighter than usual. He stirs and opens his eyes.

"Dean?" he murmurs.

"Sorry, Sammy. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Are you OK?"

"Am _I _OK? You seem to have forgotten who the sick kid is around here."

"You look upset."

"I had a dream," I say.

"Oh." Sam doesn't ask what dream. He knows. He had the same dreams in the months leading up to my deal coming due. "I'm all right, Dean."

"Yeah." I see his journal on the shelf behind the bed. "Can I…?"

"Sure." Sam rolls over to give me space to sit on the edge of the bed. "Why?"

"I just… I need to…" I reach across him for the journal and open it to the last entry. Sam's handwriting is as messy as ever, but clear, strong, not the shaky, weak scribble I saw in my dream.

"Dean?" Sam asks.

"Why are you cataloguing the books?"

"What?"

"I've seen you do it. Every free minute you get, and there must be like a zillion books in the library. Why?"

Sam looks at me like I'm an idiot. "For _you_. If – if something _does _go wrong, it'll be useful for you. Won't have to read eight books to find one obscure ritual."

"Sam –"

"Dean." He pats my knee. "I'm not saying I'm going to die. I'm just saying… Maybe we need to be prepared for the _possibility_."

"No."

"Dean –"

"_No._"

Sam sighs. "OK."

"How are you feeling?"

"Better."

"You want to try to go back to sleep?"

"Sit with me?"

I smile, running a hand through Sam's hair. He's asking as much for my sake as for his, suggesting it so I won't have to, and I'm grateful. "Sure, kiddo."

"Dean?" Sam asks as I settle against the headboard.

"Yeah?"

"You think – you think it's going to be OK?"

I look at him. His eyes are open and trustful. He's been honest with me about everything, about feeling worse, about the times he has difficulty breathing, about the blood he's spitting up as his body strains to survive whatever the spells are doing to it.

I can't lie to him.

"I've made an appointment with a doctor Garth recommended," I tell him instead.

"I don't think doctors can help, Dean."

"Can't hurt to let him look at you."

Sam turns onto his side, facing me. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I want you to know –"

"_Sam! _We've discussed this! No goodbye speech! Not now, not later, not _ever. _You're going to survive this."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. I had to give up my little brother to save the world once. I'm _not _doing it again. I'm not going to watch you die! I don't care what it takes –"

"Don't say that."

"What the hell do you mean? Sam, if you think I'm going to sit around –"

"Yeah. You _are_. We've gone down that road, Dean. It _never_ ends well."

He speaks sharply enough that he starts himself coughing. I pull him up, supporting him as he sits, and grab a bunch of the ever-present tissues from the nightstand to shove in his hand.

"Little bitch," I mutter, rubbing his back. "This is why you don't argue with your big brother."

Sam glares at me. But when the coughing subsides his head doesn't leave my shoulder. There's not much point glaring if he's going to follow it up with pulling the puppy eyes so I'll let him keep using me as a pillow.

"You'll see the doctor?" I ask.

"If you want."

"Good boy."

"I'm not a dog, Dean."

"I don't know, Sammy. Those eyes… that hair… I could make a case for you being at least _half _spaniel."

"Dean!" Sam's half-laughing, hiding his face in my shoulder, looking so much like a younger version of himself that it breaks my heart. "Don't be a jerk."

"Go to sleep, Sam."

I don't know what's coming. I don't know what the third trial's going to be, I don't know how much sicker Sam's going to get, I don't know how to heal him. All I have is a desperate hope that when it's over, we'll be all right.

I wrap an arm around Sam.

"We'll be all right," I whisper to him, and somehow, _somehow_, I'm going to find a way to keep that promise.

"Yeah," Sam whispers back. "We will."

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What do you think? Good? Bad? Please review!


	4. In Sickness

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the boys.

**Author's Note: **I've been a bit busy, so I haven't really had time for review replies. I'll get to them as soon as I can. *g* In the meantime, enjoy this!

For reviewing the last chapter, thanks to criminally charmed, Twinchester Angel, L.A.H.H, Shannanigans, godsdaughter77, scary-blue, SPNxBookworm, reannablue, twomoms, Ange De La Misericorde, cold kagome, doyleshuny, CeCe Away, pottyandweezlbe89, judyann, BranchSuper, Jeanny, SPN Mum, Holliday1081, mandancie, Sarah, SandyDee84 and myapplemonkey.

And all my gratitude to Cheryl for the beta!

**Summary: **A moment between the boys after the events with Charlie, inspired by the teaser. Spoilers up to 8.20, _Pac Man Fever_ and maybe for the sneak peek to the next episode.

**Warning: **No plot. Seriously. _None. _Carver seems to take me back to ignoring things like action and mystery and just writing pointless schmoop.

* * *

**In Sickness**

I look through the contents of the fridge. Again. I've spent the past three days trying everything I could think of to tempt Sam into eating. Dad's stew. Hamburgers. Spaghetti. I even made him _salad_.

And Sam has eaten _nothing_. If he keeps this up he's going to starve himself to death before the trials can kill him.

Then something strikes me.

I look in on Sam. He's fast asleep, so deep that he doesn't stir when I put a hand on his forehead to check his temperature.

He isn't burning up anymore, but he's still running a low-grade fever.

"I'll be back soon," I tell his sleeping form. "Just going on a grocery run."

I wait a moment. When there's still no response, I pat his chest lightly and get to my feet.

When I get back, Sam's awake and sitting in the library with a book.

"Hey, Sammy. Feeling better?"

"I'm good," Sam says.

I take a moment to look at him. Despite all the sleeping he's been doing, he's got dark circles like bruises under his eyes. He hasn't shaved in two days – I forbade it once I realized how shaky his hands were, and Sam didn't want me to shave him.

Sam looks like hell.

"Sure you are," I tell him. "Anything else you want to try to slip by me?"

Sam shakes his head and turns back to his book.

"Hey." I take the book away. "No reading till after breakfast."

"It's four in the afternoon."

"You just got out of bed. It's breakfast. And look what I got you."

I reach into the grocery bag and pull out a box.

Sam stares at it. "Lucky Charms?"

"Yeah. When you were a kid you would've eaten them all three meals if I'd let you. So how about you put the book away and I'll fix you up a bowl."

"I'm not hungry, Dean."

I sigh. This has gone far enough.

"Tough. You're going to eat."

"This isn't helping."

"What, starving yourself is going to help you get through the third trial? This is stupid! You've got to eat something."

"I'm _not hungry_. What are you going to do, Dean? Clean out the grocery stores and keep bringing me stuff until I give you a different answer?"

"If that's what it takes."

Sam scowls, gets to his feet, almost falls over, and stumbles back to his room.

I stare after him for a moment, and then I shake my head. Sam's been even more of a pissy bitch than usual and right now I have no idea what to do. I get that he's sick and hurting, and I want to help him, I _do_, but he's not giving me anything to work with.

I'm losing my baby brother to these trials. Bit by bit, I'm losing him, and he won't even let me _help_.

I leave the grocery bag on the table and go to the little room off the library where we set up a couch and a TV. (Well, I did. Sam just rolled his eyes and made unhelpful comments about my pathological need to watch cowboy movies.)

I don't think Clint Eastwood can take my mind off my brother – I don't think _anything _can – but at least it'll give me something else to focus on.

I'm kind of tired, so it isn't entirely surprising that I fall asleep.

I wake up when I feel something nudge my shoulder, and I come straight to full awareness. Blinking sleepily around the room is a luxury I'm not going to have until my brother's healthy again.

"Sam!" I touch his cheek. "What's wrong? You feeling OK?"

"I'm fine. I… just… I'm sorry, Dean."

His skin isn't any warmer than it was earlier, so I let myself relax a little. That's when I register what he said.

"Sorry? For what?"

"For earlier." Wide hazel eyes are looking at me through Sam's hair. "I know you're just trying to take care of me. I appreciate it, Dean, I do. I… just… I hate being sick."

Even if I _had _been planning to give Sam grief for being pissy, which I wasn't, the eyes would have stopped me.

"I know you do. I'm only trying to help, Sammy."

"I know. I'm sorry. And thank you. You're the best big brother ever."

He's puppy-dogging me with all he's got, and there's no point holding out for the sake of my manliness when he's going to get what he wants in the end anyway. I hold up my arm. "Come here."

Sam doesn't need a second invitation. Before I've even finished the word he's snuggled up to my side. That's when I notice the blanket he's wrapped himself in.

"Is that from my bed?"

Sam flushes and ducks his head.

"Dude, I've put _three _perfectly good blankets in your room. Why are you still stealing mine?"

Sam mumbles something I can't make out and clutches the blanket tighter like he's afraid I'll take it away from him.

"It's OK, you can keep it for now," I say. "But if your temperature goes up any more I'm taking the blanket away and putting you in a cool bath."

Sam looks up long enough to smile at me. Then he's back to looking at my knee.

"It's a good thing this is because of the trials," he mutters.

"What? Why the hell would you say such a thing?"

"If it were… You know… If it were a _normal _sickness, we'd have to worry about whether you'd catch it."

"If it were a _normal _sickness I would've taken you to a doctor before it got this bad. And if it _had _gotten this bad anyway, you think I would've been worried about whether _I _would catch it?" I rub his arm, feeling the heat seep through his shirt and the blanket to my fingers. "You think you can try eating something?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Anything you want, Sam. Seriously. Anything you're willing to eat, just tell me and I'll get it for you."

"The blue milk from _Star Wars_?"

"We've got milk and I can get food colouring." Sam snickers into my shirt. "Come on, kiddo. What do you want to eat?"

"Can I have Lucky Charms?"

I can't keep a smile from splitting my face at the thought that Sam is finally willing to eat something. "That's my boy. Wait right here. I'll get some. Try to stay awake."

It doesn't take me long to pour cereal and milk into a bowl. I'd prefer it if he ate something with more vitamins and proteins and whatever it is that builds up your immune system, but right now I'm willing to settle for him _eating_.

After a moment's hesitation, I pour out a glass of orange juice, too. It's worth a try.

I take them to Sam. I put the bowl and glass down on the coffee table before I sit, which turns out to be fortunate because Sam promptly pushes himself close to me again and if I'd been holding something I would've dropped it.

"I should tell Charlie what a clingy brat you are when you're sick," I say, slipping my arm around Sam's shoulders. "She'll probably want pictures."

"Shut up."

Sam's a little shaky, so I have to hold the bowl while he eats. He doesn't finish it, but he eats about three-quarters and it was more than I thought I'd get half an hour ago. He drinks some juice, too.

"You want to watch a movie with me?" I ask.

"Yeah."

I put in _Every Which Way but Loose_, mainly so that Sam can laugh at how much of the dialogue I've memorized. Kid hasn't had a lot to laugh about lately.

He doesn't last very long, though. Ten minutes into the movie his eyes are starting to droop, and twenty minutes in he's given up all pretence of staying awake. He's lying on the couch, curled up to fit, feet poking off the end. His head's resting on my thigh.

Stupid kid.

I consider waking him up and sending him to bed, but I decide against it. He seems comfortable enough, and his breathing's easier than it's been for a while.

So is mine.

I lower the volume on the TV and settle back, feeling suddenly hopeful. Charlie was right. Sam _is _a strong kid. He's _my _strong kid. And I've got his back every step of the way.

We're going to be fine.

* * *

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	5. What Happens After

**Author's Note: **Finale tag! There's going to be another, because _somebody _may have asked me a question whose answer she knew I would absolutely _have _to turn into a story. (Manipulative, much? :P) For now, have this. :)

Other story news… I'm about four chapters from finishing the sequel to _Dies Felices_. I'll have to give that a rest for a bit because my big bang posting date is on June 10, but I'll hope to have that going soon after. There'll be a couple more tags to S8, and then some general one-shots (the kind that I allow to accumulate on my hard drive and then realize all of a sudden that I haven't posted).

Many thanks to Cheryl for the beta.

**Disclaimer: **I wish I owned them. Alas.

**Summary: **What happens in the immediate aftermath of the finale. Tag to 8.23, _Sacrifice_.

* * *

**What Happens After**

The first clinic they visit is in South Dakota. Sam's struggling for breath and Dean's yelling for help – for _anyone_ – when a couple of nurses run out with a wheelchair. They try to get Dean to stay in the waiting room, and he ignores them because _yeah right _he's going to be stuck sitting in a creaky plastic chair counting the cracks on the ceiling while his brother's being poked and prodded by a bunch of random strangers.

They start to put an oxygen mask on Sam, and Sam yells and pushes them off because by now he's past thinking clearly. But Dean's there, with a hand on Sam's shoulder and a whisper in his ear and the nurses are really glad they let him stay when Sam quiets down and settles docilely against Dean and lets his big brother strap the mask to his face.

"See?" Dean whispers, as Sam takes deep, but still shaky, breaths. "That helped, right?"

Sam's eyes meet his, wide and terrified, and something ugly twists in Dean's gut. Terrified is he least favourite look on Sammy. He can deal with angry Sammy and bitchface Sammy and frustrated Sammy and puppy-dog Sammy, but terrified Sammy? That's just wrong.

"It's OK," Dean assures him, resting a hand on his ribs.

It's hard to quell the urge to track God down and do some hard talking. Dean gets that the guy had a lot on his mind, but _this_? Requiring the life of the person undertaking the trials and not saying so upfront? That's not sacrifice. That's cheating.

For a moment, Dean wonders what happened to Naomi. Has she fallen too?

The thought passes. He doesn't have time to worry about Naomi now. He doesn't have time to worry about anything other than how Sam's heart is still thudding dangerously fast against Dean's fingers and _where the hell is the freaking doctor_?

"Easy," he says, hoping Sam's body will respond to his voice as readily as Sam's soul does. "Easy, kiddo, it's OK. It's all OK."

Sam's heartbeat doesn't slow down, but Sam relaxes a little more, sinking into Dean with a tiny sigh that fogs up the oxygen mask. Dean laughs, and maybe he also tears up a little at the thought of how close he came to losing this kid.

The doctor finally shows up. He pushes Dean's hand off Sam's chest and puts his own hand there in its place, pressing with a force that has Sam gasping and clutching at the bottom of Dean's jacket. Dean glares at the doctor, who shrugs and says, "Broken ribs. They must be painful."

He listens to Sam's breathing and tells Dean that there's no internal injury and Sam will be fine with some rest. Dean points out that Sam's heart is going at about five times normal, and isn't the doctor going to do anything about it, douchebag?

The doctor says it's probably because of the pain.

Dean sighs inwardly. He's treated Sam for broken ribs before. He's treated Sam for worse. He knows exactly what Sam's heartbeat feels like when he's in pain, and this isn't it.

The doctor listens to all that, nods, and says again that it's probably because of the pain. Maybe strong painkillers will help.

Dean helps Sam to his feet and takes him back to the Impala. He doesn't want quacks like that around his Sammy.

* * *

The second clinic they visit is in Illinois. It's tiny, but it looks bright and cheerful. Dean thinks Sam needs to be somewhere cheerful.

He helps Sam inside. Sam refuses to go into the exam room alone, so Dean's there, one hand on his brother's back, listening to Sam ramble about how Dean spoon-fed him chicken soup that time when he was four years old and had a cold.

Dean thinks maybe he should take a leaf out of his eight-year-old self's book and start spoon-feeding Sam whenever he tries to get away with eating half a celery stalk for dinner. If nothing else, the embarrassment will make Sam eat like a normal Sasquatch.

He's wondering if the airplane thing actually _would _work when he hears a throat cleared behind him. He turns his head just enough to see a severe-looking doctor in the room.

"What's wrong with him?" the doctor asks.

It's terse, but maybe he's a good doctor. If he helps Sammy, he can be as terse as he likes.

"He's having breathing problems," Dean says. "And he's nauseous and in a lot of pain."

Sam, a half-smile still on his face from the memory of how Dean had spilled soup over both of them but still made Sam feel better, nods obligingly.

"How much pain?" the doctor asks. "Scale of one to ten, one being no pain at all and ten being the worst pain you've ever –"

"Seven," Sam says without hesitation.

Dean, knowing what Sam's _ten _is, squeezes his brother's shoulder. The doctor's eyes track the movement with disapproval.

Dean, long past the point where he's going to let some _stranger _make him feel awkward about giving Sammy the comfort he needs, glares at him.

The doctor sighs. "What about a fever? Has he been running one?"

"He was, but it's gone down."

Dean heaves a little inward sigh of relief even as he says it. He does _not _want to go through the cold bath ordeal again.

The doctor doesn't look pleased, though, and Dean's a little puzzled by the lack of reaction. Sammy's fever went down, isn't that enough to make any reasonable person feel like Christmas has come in May? Dean would be jumping for joy if he weren't too busy keeping Sam calm.

"It's gone down," the doctor says, sounding sceptical.

"You think it hasn't really gone down?" Dean asks, worried. He hadn't thought of that. "It might just be a temporary thing? I guess – maybe we should check it again in an hour or so?"

The doctor rolls his eyes and reaches for Sam's wrist.

His examination is quick, and five minutes later he's putting the blood pressure cuff back on the shelf.

"Well?" Dean asks, and if he's absent-mindedly stroking Sam's head he'd like to see who's going to call him on it. Nobody else has a Sammy, so nobody else could possibly understand what it's like to almost lose a Sammy. "Can you help him?"

"That depends," the doctor says coolly. "Have you considered the possibility that the problem may be psychological?"

Dean feels Sam's flinch, and he hears the coldness of his own voice when he asks, "Are you saying my brother is insane?"

"I'm saying he clearly has a pathological need for your attention." The doctor's narrowed eyes are following the soothing motion of Dean's hand in Sam's hair. "Maybe this is his way of getting it."

"Come on, Sammy," Dean growls. "We're leaving."

* * *

The third clinic they visit is in Kansas.

Sam's running a fever again. Dean blames the doctor in Illinois.

The doctor who comes in this time is around thirty-five, honey-coloured hair pulled back in a ponytail and warm hazel eyes. If Dean didn't have a sick little brother to worry about, he'd have been hitting on her five minutes ago.

"What seems to be the trouble?" she asks.

Dean explains, because Sam's too out of it to do much. About ten minutes ago his breathing got laboured again, and right now Dean's holding the oxygen mask to Sam's face. Sam started out holding it himself, but then he decided that he'd rather clutch Dean's jacket.

The doctor listens, nods, nudges the mask aside and puts a thermometer in Sam's mouth. Sam looks miserably sorry for himself. He jumps in shock when the stethoscope touches his chest, and it's all Dean can do to keep him from bolting.

"I need a blood sample," the doctor says. "I'll have the lab run some tests."

Sam holds out his arm obediently.

The doctor takes it, fingers skimming over his skin and stopping at the needle marks from where Sam drew his own blood to inject into Crowley.

_Crap._

Dean knows they're screwed even before the doctor opens her mouth.

"Are you trying to waste my time, Mr. Smith?" she snaps, glaring at Sam.

Sam shrinks back against Dean. Dean reminds himself that it isn't polite to hit a woman who isn't supernatural.

"Listen, doctor," Dean begins.

She shakes her head. "Don't. Don't deny your brother's drug problem. You're only going to make it worse. These are classic symptoms… Nausea, headaches, dizziness. And look at these needle marks… Just a few hours old. I can't imagine how anyone could give themselves that many hits in such a short time." She shakes her head again. "I can recommend a good rehab place."

Dean doesn't even bother to say goodbye as he drags Sam out.

* * *

The fourth clinic isn't really a clinic. It's Sam's room in the bunker, and Sam's pliant and cooperative, letting his brother clean the cuts on his face and arms and dab them with antiseptic.

Dean moves on to Sam's hand, to the neat slice through the palm that would have been fatal if it had touched Crowley.

"Too late for stitches," Dean murmurs. "I'm just going to clean it and wrap it again, OK?"

Sam mumbles an acknowledgement and settles his head on Dean's shoulder.

Sam hisses when the alcohol wipe touches his hand, and Dean can't hold back a smile. That's his brother. After everything he's been through, after having been tortured in ways even _Dean _can't imagine, he still fusses when Dean cleans out his cuts.

"Don't be a drama queen," Dean tells him.

"Dean," Sam says brightly, like he's discovered gravity and he wants everyone to know about it.

"Right here. Do you still feel sick?"

"Yes." Sam's voice is firm; Dean isn't going to get any food into him today.

Dean doesn't think he wants to. They're both tired. There's a crisis on their hands, he knows that. He saw the flashing lights and heard the warning sirens.

Later, he and Sam are going to have to figure out what all that means and where Kevin's gone. Dean doesn't think he was kidnapped; all signs indicate that he left on his own. He probably didn't want to be roped into another round of quests.

Later, though. Much later. When they're both rested and fed and back at a hundred percent, they'll think about saving the world.

For now, Dean just wants to think about how happy he is that he and Sam are here. Alive.

Together.

* * *

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